by Sierra Hill
Change of Course
Change of Hearts Series #3
Sierra Hill
Contents
Also by Sierra Hill
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright 2020 Sierra Hill
Ten28 Publishing LLC
Cover design: Amy Queau (Q Designs)
Cover Photography: CJC Photography
Model: Stephen Marks
Editing: Two Naughty Book Babes Editing
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Also by Sierra Hill
Change of Hearts (A College Campus Series)
Game Changer (Book #1)
Change in Strategy (Book #2)
Change of Course (Book #3)
Courting Love (College Sports)
Full Court Press
The Rebound
Pivot
Fast Break
Jump Shot
Stuck-Up Big Shot (A Cocky Hero Club Novel)
The Physical Series (New Adult Erotic Contemporary)
Physical Touch
More Than Physical
Physical Distraction
Physical Connection
Physical Desires (3 Book Boxset)
Standalones and Short Stories
One More Minute With You
The Reunion
Character Flaws
His Fairytale Princess
Whipped: A Second Helpings Story
Resolution: Road Trip (A Resolution Pact Story)
The Waiting Game (A Friends-to-Lovers Story)
Spring Break Navy SEAL
Her True Blue (A Fireworks Series)
Cowboy’s Kiss
Finding Her Way boxset
Santa’s Special Delivery (A Sleeping with the Scrooge Short Holiday Romance)
The Slope King (A Bachelor Mountain Novel)
Stepbrother X2 (True Love X2)
The Knight Before Christmas (A Mountain Man Holiday Short Story)
Reckless – The Smoky Mountain Trio serial
Reckless Youth
Reckless Abandon
Reckless Hearts
Reckless – The Smoky Mountain trio boxset
Dark Crime Romance
Precious Gems (Book 1)
Prologue
Kyler
I spot the closeted gay man the minute I see him.
It’s not too hard in this raucous bar filled with out and proud men. But I confirm my suspicions when he orders his first drink. It’s in the way his eyes flash away discreetly, avoiding mine except for a flick of a second when they sear into mine right before he drops them to the table.
But in that one moment of hesitation, two things become abundantly clear about this man. One, he is daringly gorgeous with a level of sophistication and confidence only found in well-bred, groomed, and pedigreed upper-class men of wealthy means. I see it in the tailored and well-designed three-piece suit (who even wears those anymore?) and the glint of his expensive watch. And lest we forget the shiny black credit card he hands to me.
Yeah, that black card.
The second, and more telling aspect of his closeted gayness, is the way he licks his bottom lip and then sucks in a deep breath when our eyes do meet only for the briefest of moments. There’s a look of both discomfort and desire warring against each other, as if he’s deciding whether to do something about the attraction or let it be.
And let me tell you, I’m not an easy man to walk away from. I know how to turn on the charm and charisma with the sweep of my full mouth.
But even my flirty grin that usually works like a charm when I turn it on doesn’t do the trick with this one. The man glances away as if resolving to keep his hands off and look but not touch.
It’s a shame because there are lots of goods available in this lust-filled haven.
Yeah, I know. I’m shameless and am not lacking in the self-confidence department. But I do tell it like I see it and I have a knack for recognizing the closeted ones who want something from me. Truth be told, I’ve seen them all walk through these bar doors all looking for the same thing: a safe place to let loose and be who they were born to be.
If you’re wondering what I like, I’m a bit of a daddy-chaser. Well, a reformed one that is because I’ve turned over a new leaf ever since my ex dropped me like an old hag for a newer model. Despite that bitter resentment, I’m a pretty easy-going guy and will sleep with anyone who’s down for a good time. That’s what happens when your heart is shattered to pieces and you’re kicked out of the only home you ever shared with the man you thought would be your forever.
Fuck forevers. I won’t fall into that sham again.
I continue to watch – and not all that surreptitiously, either - the man at the end of the bar who I find mildly entertaining.
My Spidey-senses tell me he is someone who is in such deep denial of his sexuality that he might as well be the GM of California Closets because he will never step out of the well designed closet he’s designed for himself.
I shake my head at the inevitable. The guy is too easy to read. He’s just looking for something other than the Mitzys or Buffys he’s dated all his entire life under the guise of a straight man, and instead have a hot fuck with a Charles or a William.
Yet even here, at Cactus Pete’s, the gay bar I work at in downtown Phoenix, where it’s open season on any willing guy, he’s as emotionally and physically closed off as a dam.
And it’s a shame because he is one hot, tall perfect package that I wouldn’t mind undressing and seeing if I could bring him to his knees with my mouth.
Checking in on the few customers as I work my way down the bar to Mr. Closet, I sidle up to him across the bar counter, dropping my elbow, and lazily prop my chin in my palm.
“How’s the dirty martini
going down? Dirty enough for you?”
I give him a saucy smile and a playful wink as his eyes dart to mine. And whoa. I’m taken by the level of intensity in his outrageously green marbled gaze, the flecks of gold and copper brightening his otherwise secretive eyes.
“Huh?” he responds, clearly startled, as he’d been reading over some paperwork laid out on the bar top. His gaze drifts to the empty glass in front of him and his fingers curl around the stem, pushing it toward me as if he finally realized why I’d ask. “Oh, yes. It was perfect. I probably shouldn’t have another one. I’ve got work to do.”
I lean over the edge, my belly and hip scraping over the marbled counter, and push my mouth next to his ear. Oh man, he smells incredible. A crisp soapy scent mixed with expensive cologne. Probably French. Definitely not the cheap over-the-counter shit I get lungfuls of in this place on any given night. Nah, this man is high class and far too above the fray in here.
Which means I can’t help but find a way to fluster the shit out of him.
“You know, if you want it even dirtier, I can do that for you. I’m really good at making it dirty.”
I slink back off the counter, tucking the edge of my shirt back down where it had risen over my belly, showing off my sleek abs and skin. I lick my lips enticingly and step back. Apparently, Mr. Put-Together got a nice view of my stomach before I covered it back up because I notice the twitch of his fingers and the tightening of his jaw.
Without meaning to, I burst out laughing, waving my hand in the air at him. “Oh my God, dude. You should see yourself right now. Did I just insult your tender sensibilities with my innuendo?”
In a flash, he jerks his shoulders back with righteous indignation.
“No,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I was just trying to figure out if you meant the drink or something else.”
Once again, I bend over the counter, my elbows pinched tight to my ribs, hands clasped in front of me, and give him an innocent lift of my eyebrow.
“I guess if you don’t know, then you don’t want what I have to offer.”
I spin on my heels, ready to walk away when I feel his large hand curl firmly around my forearm, jerking me back toward him.
Now that’s what I’m talking about. I like a firm grasp on a man. I like the sting of pain and the heat from his grip. I whip my head up and stare him down, holding his gaze.
“No, I do know what I want.” His eyes travel the length of my body, his piercing eyes blazing with desire. “And the drink is only a start.”
1
Lucas
I think my first love has always been art.
My Aunt Meredith would take me into New York when I was a kid from my home in Connecticut to attend art gallery shows and museum exhibits. I was fascinated and thrilled with the way artists could shape, mold, and paint such vivid, glorious works, creating life through their art.
That love grew and developed until I majored in Art History in college – much to my family’s chagrin – which led me into a role as a college professor after graduation. I never seemed to fit within anyone’s mold. I played basketball and majored in art. A truly odd combination but they were my two passions.
My second love hit me out of nowhere like a 100-mile per hour fastball into the solar plexus when I was twenty. And caused me more sleepless nights than anything else ever would.
It happened during my sophomore year in college while I was playing basketball on the men’s team with Garrett Parker. He was and is still my best friend. And during that year as roommates, I fell in love with him.
The problem with this love story?
Garrett is straight and he believes I am too. As does my family. No one knows I’m gay because I’ve never come out. And I certainly never expressed my unrequited love to my best friend. I’m not stupid and didn’t want to lose my friendship.
Which left me with pitiful options. I learned to manage my thirst for Garrett when he went off to play in the NBA and got married, and I quietly created a life in Tempe, Arizona, dating women who never did anything for me but left me pining for the one I really wanted.
But I have had secretive hookups on the down low with men. Like I did this past summer with the pretty bartender from Cactus Pete’s.
So here I am, on the first day of a new school year when I should be excited and exhilarated over the chaotic rush of the fall semester. Where I have the opportunity to influence young minds, educating them on the beauty of art, and introducing them to a plethora of cultures and diversity within the world – yet, I feel something missing because I have no one to share it with.
With a deep sigh, I gather my tablet and paperwork for my first class and head down the corridor toward the lecture hall where I’m about to begin a class for third-year students on Modern and Contemporary Design. It’s a curriculum I developed for those in various art and design programs here at the university.
Stepping into the lecture hall, I take a glance up into the theater, where rows and rows of students begin filing in, carrying laptop bags and phones in their hands as they find their seats.
I read through my roster of students, quickly identifying that I should have fifty-five in the class, and begin to call out for a quick attendance check and introduction.
“Good morning, students. I’m Professor Mathiasson. If you’re here for Modern and Contemporary Design then you’re in the right place. If you have no clue what that means, then you should probably Google it or get the hell out of my classroom.”
There’s a rumble of chuckles through the theater, and I grin at the response, seeing two students quickly file out as inconspicuously as they can.
“This class studies the history of design from 1800 to present day. It will introduce you to the ideas that have driven design in the modern era. It won’t be an easy class that you can skate through. I expect you to show up, pay attention, do the work and walk out of here with more than you came in with.”
I survey the class, giving them a firm look of disapproval just to scare the bejeebies out of those that think this class will be a cakewalk. I may be a nice guy and a good professor, but I don’t allow slacking in my classes.
Pressing my back against the lecture table, I hook an ankle over the other and take a look down at the tablet in my hands. “Okay, let’s do some quick introductions. When I call your name, you’re going to tell me why you’re in my class this semester.”
I do a quick scan of the room and see eager faces, which is a good sign.
“Anabella Smith. State your purpose.”
A young, bright-eyed girl with a blonde pixie-cut stands and introduces herself. “Hi, I’m Anabella and I’m here because I had to fulfill my elective requirement to graduate.”
There’s a low buzz of laughter across the span of the room, and I raise a brow. At least she’s honest, I’ll give her that.
“Thank you, Miss Smith. I appreciate your candor. Let’s hope you’ll learn a little about art history as the semester progresses and you can impress people at parties at the very least.”
We continue to go down the list alphabetically by first names until I reach the K’s. Kahlil. Kallie. Kelly. Kendra. Kyler.
My brain sputters and stalls, as if the breaks were just thrown on as it careens down a steep hill, my body following along with the rushing speed of a boulder. I reach behind me to grab the edge of the lecture desk to steady myself.
No, it can’t be.
Kyler Scott.
When I dare to glance back up at the room in front of me, I see him casually stand from the second to back row, his longish chestnut brown hair flopping to the side of his face, covering a portion of his forehead. A forehead that I know from personal, up-close experience is dotted with a canvas of freckles.
His devastatingly cocky grin is split wide across his angular face, his full lips parted in that sexy way of his as if he has a secret he wants to impart.
And oh, hell, does he ever have a secret.
A secret about me and th
e one night we shared together this past summer.
It was a night I’ll never forget and the one that made me a glutton for punishment, hoping and trying to get more out of him. Reducing me to a needy beggar.
But he staunchly refused to see me again, stating he was a “one-and-done” kind of guy and wasn’t up for seconds even though I worked hard to change his mind.
Oh, the irony of it all. Kyler Scott never wanted to see me again. Yet, funny how the world works and allows for fate to step in.
Not only is he here in my classroom as my student, but we also found out earlier in August that we shared mutual friends when we both showed up to my godson’s fifth birthday party.
He clears his throat and tries to speak, but it comes out as an awkward croak, giving me an evil thrill that maybe I affect him more than he lets on. His charming, lopsided smile fades as he introduces himself to the class.
“Kyl—” he clears his throat again. “Kyler Scott. I’m a fourth-year fashion and design student with a dual degree in multimedia art design. Better to have both just in case I fuck up in the fashion world.”
The class roars with laughter at his self-deprecating comment but my gaze remains steady. He licks his lips and shrugs his shoulders with a “devil-may-care” nonchalance. My eyes travel down his torso, over the black T-shirt that fits tight across his chest - under which I know is a smooth, taut chest with nipple rings in each copper penny nipple - a jean jacket hiding what I explored for hours in our night together. And his black skinny jeans wrap snuggly around his hips and legs, which I remember being on the thinner side, but were perfectly muscular when wrapped around my hips while I was driving into him.
